Bone Dry
by tapeandblades
Summary: "When Arthur finally does drift into a restless sleep, he dreams of tangy milk, blistering sunlight and delicate rifles. There is rotting wood and stained mirrors and rusting kettles, and there's a pair of cerulean eyes, clotted with mystery and a heavy past." [This is a Western AU fan fiction requested by @merthured.]
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

A blonde man sits by a lake, toes gently grazing the water, eyes full of sunlight and crickets and gunshots.

It's different here, by the water. The rain falls more than once a month, and the green throbs loudly everywhere he looks – it almost sickens him. But it's better than parched tongues, silver revolvers and yellow, arid expanses.

His breath hitches as his foot hits the sharp edge of a rock. A gorgeous crimson bursts from the pulp of his heel, violently disrupting the tranquillity of the water. The sight of the red swirling in a cloud upsets his tender stomach, and he twists quickly to retch on the stones at his side.

He'd almost forgotten the shade of his blood.

Standing, he presses the wound into the rocks, painting a sanguine trail along the edge of the lake. His feet are gory cartographers, macabre artists – he welcomes the tartness of the pain like an old friend.

As he turns back to watch the horizon, the desert is in his eyes, twisting and burning like a fever dream. Sometimes _his_ eyes swim across his vision, blue and knowing and _young_. He wishes someone would beat them from his mind, and every other memory that comes with them, but they always linger, like dust mites. Always watching him.

It's cooler in the evenings here – he can feel the air biting into his neck, gripping him from behind. He doesn't have the capacity to shiver anymore. He moves further into the trees, searching for a bed for the night.

He'll be back the next day – he always is. The blonde man by the lake, shoulders broad and strong, hat tipped low as he picks at the dirt beneath his nails. The blonde man by the lake, skin too golden to be local, slowly losing his mind to the tide.

* * *

 **A/N** Okay so this is the prologue to a fan fiction I have been requested by merthured (her blog on tumblr is amazing and makes me so happy please check it out). It's a Western fiction (I have yet to decide whether it's Merthur, I will have to consult Anna on that one). And I mean Merlin and Arthur as cowboys... Am I right? But of course, I won't leave with about 300 words max, that's just mean. Chapter One will also be up shortly, and I'm already working on Chapter Two! Don't worry, Cold as Death should keep on coming too.

Happy reading!

-tapeandblades


	2. Chapter One

**Chapter One**

It's the incoherent shouts that draw him to his window; the gunshot is what has him pushing through the screen, rifle loaded and tucked under his arm. The wood bangs against the side of his cabin as the crazed yelling is fashioned into curses and death threats – more bullets pierce the night. He whistles lowly, raising the barrel of his gun. Those are from revolvers, made for killing people, dirty things with metal colder than the hearts of men. His trigger is warm. He smiles slightly, chewing on the tip of his tongue.

There's the desperate thumping of footsteps against sod, and then the men burst from the darkness. One is metres ahead of the others, and he runs with urgency – a silhouette behind him raises a gun once more to shoot. His aim is off – it slices through the air and is lost. He shakes his head, as if disappointed, and then snaps the safety off. Both the first fellow's hands are empty. _You don't shoot at an unarmed man_.

He waits a few more seconds for the party to grow closer, and then he fires a shot into the air. The sound echoes through the clearing, a roar, deafening compared to their measly pistols. He aims just over the predator's heads, enough to send them sprawling, hands clamped on their ears. He lowers the barrel, running his fingers over the grooves and leaning heavily on the doorframe. The chasers climb onto stuttering feet, and take off in the direction they came, guns hanging limply at their sides. The other man skids to a halt, head spinning wildly to find the source of the sound. Eventually, his eyes land on the figure in the doorway, and he stares, motionless.

The sound of crickets chirping pulses through the silence.

"Are you gonna come in?"

The man outside jumps, face concealed by the night. He smirks at him, placing his gun just inside the door. "I did just save your arse. You could at least show your face."

Warily, the young gentleman steps into the light, and the first thing he notices about him is the colour of his hair. It's the colour of sand, but not the sand of the West. Of the East, where the ocean roils mercilessly against the shore and the wind tastes of salt and sea lavender.

The rest is simpler. He's strong, supple with muscle, like someone familiar with mining; his skin is tanned and his hands are calloused; and his eyes are blue, much like his own, but more innocent – empty of experience.

"What's your name then?"

The blonde clears his throat, standing taller. "It's Arthur."

"Arthur who?"

"Uh, Arthur Pendragon?"

He laughs. "You're not sure?"

"No, I – "

"Come inside."

He pushes the screen back open, revealing a worn wooden door, swinging his rifle over his shoulder as he does so. Arthur remains outside, bewildered. "I said come in. I don't bite."

Clenching and unclenching his fists, he takes a step forward, following the stranger into his cabin. Only then does he take a proper look at the man – he's taller than him, his hair black as soot, hat tipped back on his head. He holds himself loosely, lanky arms swinging as he steps around a dusty table. His eyes are a ghostly blue, full of mirthful conflict. Arthur frowns as this stranger shoots him a smile – it's almost mocking, and he can't help but wonder why his manner is so casual. He just shot a rifle into the air and sent several men running, didn't he?

Then again, he did just save his life.

"Why… did you do that?"

"They were shooting near my cows." He sets down two mugs and moves over to a banged up stove. "No coffee. Tea?"

"… Sure."

With a swipe of his hand, the gas erupts into flame, swarming the hob in an array of oranges and blues. He sets a brass kettle on it, before turning back to Arthur.

"Why did they chase you?"

The blonde's cheek darkens at the question, and he stares at his hands, sheepish. "I… needed a horse. I wanted to go further east but… they caught me almost as soon as I mounted."

"You're a poor thief." The cowboy chuckles, spooning tea leaves into a pot. "Why didn't you just kick the stepper into a gallop?"

His face reddens even further, and he picks at the grain of the table absent-mindedly. "I…"

The kettle whistling saves him for a few moments, and the taller man becomes occupied with pouring the water into the teapot. Stirring, he silently observes the colour, huffing contentedly when it takes on a deep brown.

"Milk?" he asks lackadaisically, eyes never leaving the water as he splashes the tea lazily into the mugs. "It's fresh. Milked the cows this morning."

"Yes, please."

When they're both set with tea, two cups of swirling cream and sepia, the cowboy slumps into a chair at the table, itching the back of his neck. "Spit it out then."

"What?"

"Why you didn't ride away."

Arthur clinks his nails on the side of his mug, embarrassed. "Well…" He gulps as he watches the man's expression – he's looking at him expectantly, mouth twisting amusedly. He appears to be enjoying Arthur's discomfort. "I'm… not very good at riding a horse."

There's a moment of silence, and then a breathless laugh. Arthur's face grows vermillion once more. "Alright," he says, taking a large slurp of the tea. "I'll just have to teach you."

"Teach me?"

"You got anywhere else to be?"

"… No."

"Good. Your rooms down the hall, on the left." And with that, he takes one last gulp, leaving his drink half finished on the table. Hissing and quickly drumming his fingers on the wood, he stands, slapping his braces against his shirt as he does so. "I'm hitting the hay."

"Wait. Why are you offering me a place to stay?"

"You don't want it?"

"No I do, just – "

"I'll see you in the mornin'." His boots hit the floor heavily as crosses the room. Arthur stares after him, astonished, tea left forgotten on the table. His tongue lies thick and heavy in his mouth – his limbs ache from running – and now a strange man who herds cows and rides horses and drinks tea has told him to sleep in the bedroom down the hall. Hands shaking, Arthur runs a hand through his hair. He wishes he were back in the mines – he had his place there, he was strong, _confident_ – but now…

He has to rely on the kindness of a stranger, like a stray cat hunting for scraps.

Chewing on his lip, he follows after him, shuffling his way down the hall. He's about to enter the room when the man stops, chuckling to himself. His head is down, hat low over his eyes. Arthur swallows thickly.

"What?"

He turns to face him, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. "I've just realised. I never told you my name."

The blonde blinks, relaxing slightly. He'd thought for a moment he was going to turn and tell him it was all trickery – kick him out onto the sand and leave him to the coyotes. "Oh."

"It's Merlin."

And then he swings round to face the door, and wanders, whistling, into his room.

* * *

The room Merlin's given him is opposite his own, and completely ridden with dust. There's a bed in the corner, and when he sits down it stiffens beneath him – it will have to be worn in, like a pair of shoes. Sighing, he kicks off his own worn boots, picking them up and gently fingering the holes. They'd seen much trouble in the last year.

There's a dresser as well, plain and empty, and Arthur places his shoes next to it. He doesn't have any clothes with him, but he'd only had a few shirts back at home anyway. His sister Morgana had always done the washing…

He turns to his left and finds himself staring back at him. The mirror is cracked, stained, but its frame has been cleaned – recently. It shines silver, and looks like the only expensive item Merlin owns. He wonders why it isn't in his own room.

Pulling off his shirt and hanging it over a lone chair, Arthur slips quietly into bed, punching the pillow a few times before settling. Crickets sing humbly outside, and there are a few howls and rustles, and if he closes his eyes, it almost feels like home.

As he lies there, Arthur takes a moment to reflect on the day. He had almost stolen a horse – his first ever felony – and he had almost gotten himself killed for it. The men had been burly; spit flying off their lips, and their guns had spun threateningly on their fingers. Never before had anyone aimed a gun at _him_. He'd gone hunting with his father sometimes, and had aimed a rifle, but never before had a bullet been so precariously close to knocking him through the ground and into the next life.

And then there was Merlin.

He had saved his skin, for no reason in particular (he didn't believe the cow story for a second) and then had made him tea and given him a bed for the night. Every once in a while, Arthur can hear the whinnies of horses and the soft mewling of cows, and he wonders why this cowboy trusts him so carelessly. _He_ knows he isn't threatening, but Merlin couldn't possibly. He is large, muscular, and yet he doesn't intimidate this man. He hadn't for a second even suggested that Arthur might steal a horse, or shoot a bull – he had every faith in him to remain quiet and _harmless._

Who is Merlin? Why did he talk more than cowboys are rumoured to – why did he _smile_ more than he should? They're in Wyoming, where surely they should be drinking coffee, and yet he made tea.

It was all _wrong_. And yet, Arthur can't bring himself to care.

When Arthur finally does drift into a restless sleep, he dreams of tangy milk, blistering sunlight and delicate rifles. There is rotting wood and stained mirrors and rusting kettles, and there's a pair of cerulean eyes, clotted with mystery and a heavy past.

* * *

 **A/N** I hope you're enjoying it so far. Especially you Anna! Let me know if there's anything in particular you want done with the story ^-^

-tapeandblades


	3. Chapter Two

**Chapter Two**

There are rumours about the cabin a mile or so from the town.

People say the man who lives there is haunted by a girl, one with soft eyes and tatty clothes, who hangs around his shoulders, slowly driving him mad.

They say he's killed so many men he could build an army from the victims.

They say he doesn't exist, only a figment of a coward's imagination, made to scare children at night so they won't sneak out of their rickety whistle-stop.

He's left mostly alone, the man in the cabin, the one with a night sky for hair and forget-me-nots for eyes. The one who leans on a rifle like a cane; who drinks milk straight from the udders of cows. No one can know if these whispers contain any truth, but Arthur didn't stop long enough in the town to hear them.

* * *

And so it goes: Arthur gingerly grasps the teats of a particularly agitated cow, while Merlin watches from the porch, chewing a strand of grass, shouting instructions every now and then.

He's come to the conclusion that he likes Arthur. Despite their similar ages, he has decided he will take the blonde on as his protégé, teaching him the western ways so he no longer has to be alone. He's been isolated in this cabin for years, away from all the gunfire, but now he wants a taste again. He wants a thrill, the kind of ecstasy he got with… her.

It's about time, he'd say.

"Merlin," Arthur says nervously from the floor, "it's not working."

The cowboy leans over his knees, squinting at Arthur's hands from his station on the rocking chair. "Squeeze them harder," he orders, demonstrating with his hands, "be gentle but firm. You have to – "

There's a terrified _moo!_ and then Arthur's crying out as the cow kicks in surprise, jumping out of the way and landing on his rear just in time. The large beast gives an irritated huff before wandering quickly off in the opposite direction to him, not wanting to be groped like that again.

Merlin is howling with laughter when Arthur finally stumbles to his feet, and begins to slap his knee loudly when the blonde shoots him a glare. "What were you trying to do?" he says between breaths, "squeeze the _living daylights_ out of it?"

"Well if you just _showed me_ – "

Merlin pulls himself up out of his chair, swaggering with confidence over to the closest cow. He inspects her udders. "These are full," he observes, kneeling swiftly and dragging a bucket over. "And now you grasp the teat…" he places a pale hand around the pink flesh, looking up at Arthur as he does so. "And pull." He drags his hand down and a white cream oozes out. "See? Gentle but firm. Here – "

He takes Arthur's hand in his own and places it on the udder. Manoeuvring his guest's tanned fingers over the teat, he squeezes out the milk, heads close together as they work.

"You see?" Merlin holds up the full bucket, grinning. "Go do another one. She needs milking." He points to the cow across from him. "I expect at least one full bottle's worth when I get back."

Bucket of milk swinging by his side, the taller man wanders back to the cabin, still chewing amiably on the stick of grass. Arthur sighs, bringing another bucket over to his next victim. He begins to milk her slowly, creating a rhythm as he does so.

He hears Merlin clattering about in the house a few metres back, and when he returns, Arthur's collected a substantial amount of fresh dairy and his partner is holding out a bottle of beer. The blonde accepts it gratefully, letting the amber fluid slip down his throat as he tips it against his lips. Merlin watches as he closes his eyes against the pounding sun, weary.

"Where'd you work before?"

Arthur raises his eyebrows at the question, bringing the nozzle of the bottle away from his mouth. "Why'd you want to know?"

Merlin shrugs, holding his gaze. He says nothing more, so Arthur clears his throat to break the silence.

"Mines," he states simply, taking another swig of his beer.

"I figured as much."

"Yeah?"

Merlin nods, running his thumb around the top of his own bottle. "Better than this?"

He considers the question for a moment, stretching his legs out on the sand and leaning back to face the midday sun. "I miss it," he admits, watching the clouds drift over the sky, "the dirty work, and the physical labour. But I could never go back."

The cowboy doesn't question him; simply nods and drinks lazily from his beer. They sit quietly, both lost in their past, alcohol sizzling quietly beneath their hands.

"Well," Merlin says finally, heaving himself up, "I can show ya a bit of physical labour, if you want."

Arthur smiles slightly, nodding. "Alright then."

The two men gather by a fence, and the more experience of the two eyes the animals in front of him, holding up a hand. "Sometimes," he says, pointing to a cow kicking dangerously at the wood on the other side, "you have to catch the cow. 'Cept, cows don't wanna be caught."

"I'm assuming this is where horses come in."

"You'd be correct." Merlin nods, smirking. "Wanna see my mare?"

He doesn't wait for an answer before wandering off towards a smaller construction beyond the fence. He jumps the barrier smoothly, and then gestures for Arthur to do the same. "This is my little stable here," he informs him, grinning with pride. Arthur hadn't noticed the building before – there wasn't much to see, honestly. But the cowboy in front of him sands his hands together excitedly as he leads his new guest over, boots slowly becoming caked in dust.

Arthur hears her before he sees her. There's a loud whinny as Merlin approaches, and then the majestic form of a horse's head appears. She's a glossy brown, mane almost the same shade as her master's mop, and she greets him with tender eyes, shaking her head.

"Hey there," Merlin coos, and the blonde almost trips at the drastic change in tone. His deep, commanding voice has gone up several semitones as he pats the muzzle of his mount. He brings an apple out from the pocket of his trousers, and Arthur smiles as he lovingly feeds it to her. "This is Hunith," he says, turning to face his companion for a second. "There's another horse I ride, next door. His name is Lancelot." Arthur strides over to see a beautiful grey stallion peering out curiously over the gate. "He's strong-willed," Merlin adds, watching Arthur from his position, "but bravest little sod I've ever seen. You'll be riding him while you're here."

The blonde snaps his head round to face him, wide-eyed. "W-What?"

Merlin rolls his eyes, taking a step back from Hunith. " _I said_ , he's yours."

"But Merlin – "

The man gives him a look that stops him short. Arthur snaps his mouth shut and turns once more to the beautiful horse in front of him. Lancelot sighs loudly through his nose, glancing up at his new master with curious eyes. Arthur smiles.

"Thank you, Merlin."

The cowboy nods, giving Hunith one last scratch behind the ears. "Come on," he says, moving back towards the cabin. "I'll fix us some lunch."

* * *

"So your milk." The new addition to Merlin's family of cows and horses swings one foot over the other, leaning back in his chair. The sky has become an electric blue, and is slowly making its descent into night. "You sell it to the town a couple miles back?"

Merlin nods, another beer in his hand. "This terrified little boy comes up and takes a basket with 'im every morning. Makes the whole trek up here." The cowboy chuckles slightly into his drink. "I don' know why they make 'im do it. He's only young."

Arthur frowns. "What do you mean?"

"What do you mean, what do I mean?"

The blonde knocks back the rest of his ale, taking a moment to swallow. "You said he's terrified."

The other man's mouth becomes a small 'o' in realisation, and he looks up to the darkening sky, a gentle wind brushing against the hollow of his cheek. "People generally are."

"Merlin."

His head lolls again to the side as he peers at Arthur. "There are rumours," he admits finally, setting his beer down by his feet. "'Bout me."

"What rumours?"

"Couple years ago, when I stopped bringing the milk down myself, people made up stories. Sayin' I'd gone mad or something." He bends over, rubbing his hands down his face. "'S not true though."

"Why did you stop bringing the milk down yourself?"

"Well, you're just _full_ of questions tonight," he snaps back, accidentally kicking his bottle over in his frustration. He regards the spill distantly as the umber liquid soaks between the cracks in the wood. He seems lost for a moment, eyes clouded over with memories. Shaking his head, their eyes meet again, and Merlin sighs quietly. "I'm sorry. Just tired."

He stands up, picking the empty beer bottle up with him. "I've had enough for tonight," he says, though Arthur can't help but notice that he now appears to be completely sober. Once again, he finds himself wondering about Merlin, this enigmatic cowboy that had taken him in despite the circumstances. The people in the town obviously fear him, but how could they? Merlin, with his easy smile, with his old worn hat, with his warm cracked hands?

And Merlin, with his haunted eyes, tidal nature, and perfect aim.

Should Arthur be scared of him too?

"I'm off to bed," the taller man says simply before pushing through the back door, leaving Arthur on the porch, alone with his thoughts.

* * *

The next morning, Arthur is woken with the sound of boots banging on loose wooden boards. He's blearily blinking his eyes when Merlin bursts into the room, hands laden with ropes, shooting him a cheeky grin.

"Up and at 'em," he chirps, manoeuvring the lasso in his arms. "We're doing some cow herding!"

"What?" Arthur heaves himself upright, blonde hair all flyaway. "Doesn't the fence keep them in?"

Merlin stares at him, incredulous. "That's not what the fence is for, dumbass. I only close it for milking."

"So… that means – "

"The cows have been roaming the field all night, yeah." He rolls his eyes, shifting his arms again. "How would you like it if you were stuck in a pen all the time?"

And with that, he marches out of the room, leaving Arthur to find something clean to wear.

And that's when he sees it. On the chair next to his bed, lies a fresh set of clothes. He runs his fingers over the white cotton, lost for words. When had Merlin left these in here?

Hastily getting dressed, he slips on his tattered boots, somehow forgetting all of his doubts from before.

When he finally gets outside, the sun is already beginning to swell in the sky, and it doesn't take him long to spot his saviour. He sits tall on Hunith, a red neckerchief tied under his chin, hat tilted high against the horizon.

"Arthur!" he exclaims when he spots the blonde approaching, and before he can reply, Merlin's chucked him some rope. "Lancelot's in the stable, saddled up." Arthur stands there, confused. "Hurry up then! We ain't got all day!"

"But, Merlin – "

"I'm not having any 'I can't ride a horse' nonsense. Get your goddamned mount out here already."

Stumbling, Arthur makes his way to the stables, finding the stunning grey horse prepped and ready. He's taken aback once more by Lancelot's strength; the muscles in his thighs move distinctly below his smooth hide. Gasping, he lets his hand graze over the stallion's nostrils. The rough air tickles his palm as the horse breathes.

" _Arthur!_ "

Growling, he leads Lancelot out of the stables, glaring hard at Merlin as he comes to a stop in front of the brown mare. "Well?"

"You need to get on first."

Arthur scowls. "I already told you – "

" _Get on._ " He sighs in defeat, placing his leg into the stirrup and lifting himself onto the saddle. Once he's settled, foot either side, he waits for Merlin's next direction; gaze down as he focuses on staying on the horse. He doesn't get anything but the beating of hooves on sand, and a joyous shout. Startled, the blonde looks up to witness one of the most beautifully raw pictures he has ever come to face.

Merlin, hand raised to the heavens and his body arching off the horse, screams a raging battle cry and gallops full speed at a wandering cow. Alarmed, the beast takes off running. With a loud snap, Merlin throws out his lasso, spinning it in the air like a tornado. Mesmerised, Arthur gapes as the cowboy appears to leap entirely off his horse, rope leering after the cow like the hands of gods. There's another yell as she becomes ensnared in the rough cords, and the horse slows to a trot as Merlin laughs breathlessly, blue eyes closed against the sun.

And Arthur loves it. He loves every second. The screams of rapture, the euphoric streams of colour and sunlight, the heat scalding the backs of your hands and parching your tongue as you submit yourself entirely to the chase. Arthur wants it, the strength that comes with a horse galloping beneath you, and the freedom that comes with creating your own wind in a desert.

When Merlin comes to a standstill next to him again, cow at his side, cheeks red with breathlessness, Arthur holds out his own rope, eyes gleaming.

"Teach me," he says, and Merlin smirks, unties something from his saddle, and places a beige Stetson hat on his head.

* * *

 **A/N** Okay so I know this is really soon after the last chapter but it was finished so why not post it? Don't expect this to be the norm though, I rarely actually have time to write :') I hope you're all enjoying it so far, I'm really enjoying writing it. Happy reading!

-tapeandblades


End file.
